


Say It, Spit It Out

by MistahJay (CassLikesFic)



Series: Gotham's Finest [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cisswap, Developing Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Gender or Sex Swap, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/MistahJay
Summary: “Harley tells me there’s something you want.” Joker lights a cigarette with a gold windproof lighter. The clink of the metal cover snapping shut jolts through him. She takes a long drag, narrows her eyes against the smoke, watches him with disinterest.“...it was just an idea.” Blake looks to Harley with a frown. Is he supposed to apologize? He rubs sweaty palms on his pants, shifts in his chair. Feels that prickle of anger along his spine, raising his chin, narrowing his eyes. His hands itch to tighten into fists. “You want me to fucking apologize for some dirty talk in the tub, you’re-”“Don’t waste your energy, Detective.” Joker says mildly. “It’s an interesting idea.”(A negotiation in three parts.)
Relationships: John Blake/Joker, John Blake/Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Series: Gotham's Finest [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529720
Kudos: 7





	1. Blake

Blake’s heart rate increases just hearing Harley’s voice on the other end of the phone. He doesn’t even register the words at first. It’s been three weeks of settling back into routine, deciding that the night of the “rescue attempt” was fun but obviously a one time thing. Staying up, watching the late show without absorbing any of it, falling asleep on the couch. Shrugging his old skin back on, feeling the comfort and protection of the everyday. 

It all shatters at the words, “She wants to talk to you.” Blake looks over his shoulder at his desk, the bullpen full of noise and laughter, good natured banter flowing around him. He cups the phone closer to his ear, hunches down at his desk, shoulders tight. Someone bumps him on their way to the back of the room, carelessly spilling drops of coffee on his paperwork. He doesn’t bother yelling.

“She  _ what _ ?” 

“I told her everything. She wants to talk to you about it.” No question about who She is. And there’s no question that  _ everything _ encompasses that dirty sweet story Harley murmured in his ear in the bathtub. Blake’s mind is already full of dangerous possibilities. His head is spinning. He feels the earth drop out from under his feet, swallows hard. 

“...when and where?” He fights to keep his tone steady, even. Keep the eagerness out of his voice. He fumbles with the mess on his desk, grabs a pen, a legal pad.

Harley tells him. Blake doesn’t finish writing the name of the bar down before the line goes dead.

Two days. It’s too much time, it’s not enough. Blake twists on it, picks a fight with his supervisor about nothing, punches his knuckles raw on the bag in the gym. 

Blake doesn’t dress up. He doesn’t do anything to prepare for the meeting except arrive on time. He showered because he came directly from the gym. He’s wearing a clean, crisp pressed shirt because it’s Friday and that’s what you do when you’re going from work to the bar.

He’s ten minutes early. Joker and Harley are already waiting. Neither smile when they see him. Neither of them stand. Joker’s suit is deep purple, the shirt underneath a jarring acid green. There’s an orange rose in her lapel. Harley’s suit is black with a red silk shirt underneath. He’s wearing a pin on his collar, a two of hearts. Blake feels underdressed and unfinished next to their sharp edges. They look outlined in ink, while he feels like a rough pencil sketch.

She says, “Sit down, Detective.”

Harley smiles slightly, tilts his head to one side, indicating the chair. Blake sits.

“Harley tells me there’s something you want.” Joker lights a cigarette with a gold windproof lighter. The clink of the metal cover snapping shut jolts through him. She takes a long drag, narrows her eyes against the smoke, watches him with disinterest.

“...it was just an idea.” Blake looks to Harley with a frown. Is he supposed to apologize? He rubs sweaty palms on his pants, shifts in his chair. Feels that prickle of anger along his spine, raising his chin, narrowing his eyes. His hands itch to tighten into fists. “You want me to fucking apologize for some dirty talk in the tub, you’re-”

“Don’t waste your energy, Detective.” Joker says mildly. “It’s an interesting idea.”

“An idea that involves all of us,” Harley says, leaning back in his chair. He sits tall, the lines of the suit highlighting the lean angles of his body. The word  _ submissive _ just doesn’t apply. He looks just as deadly as she does.

“If you don’t ask for what you want, how do you expect to get it?” Joker asks. She takes a sip from a cut crystal glass. Harley pours Blake a measure of the same amber liquid. Blake turns the glass with his fingers, doesn’t drink. He looks to Joker, then at Harley.

“Does that mean you’re interested?”

“It means I want to hear what you have to say.” Joker taps ash off the end of her cigarette. She takes another sip of her own drink, watches him over the rim of her glass. Blake can’t help staring at her red painted mouth, lips wet with alcohol, slightly parted. “Stop staring and start talking.”

Blake’s not good at storytelling. Sure, he can put the threads of a case together, figure out motivations. But that’s different. He likes to think he’s decent at dirty talk, too, because that’s just saying what you’re thinking. This is a whole different beast. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and his words feel clumsy, take too long. It feels unoriginal, bare and tawdry and shabby. A boy’s threadbare fantasy, torn out pages from some waterlogged rag at a corner store. He feels childish, embarrassed. When he finishes talking, he downs the contents of his glass with two hard swallows, feeling the expensive alcohol burn its way down his throat and then bloom into warmth in his chest and stomach.

Joker looks mildly amused. Harley’s eyes are sharp and glinting. He helped polish this splinter that’s lodged itself in Blake’s head. Blake would be lying if he said he hadn’t been worrying the idea over and over. Like a split lip he can’t stop sucking on, filling his mouth with the taste of blood. He glares at the tabletop, feeling like a fool. Joker refills his glass without asking him. 

“I’ll do it,” she says, and Blake almost shudders at the surge of heat that goes through him at her words. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, exhales slowly. Forces his hands flat on his legs. Looks at her. “I’ll kidnap you, watch Harley force you to do everything you want him to do to you. Maybe I’ll even touch you myself.” She crosses one leg over the other. Blake remembers the feel of her spiked glove, digging into his cheek. He does shudder, at that. “But you have to ask me nicely.”

“Please.” Blake says, barely above a whisper. His mouth is as dry as old bone.

“Not good enough.” She stubs out her cigarette in sharp, vicious stabs. She traps him with her gaze. “Look me in the eyes, and ask. Me. Nicely.” Blake flinches at her words. He glances down, over to Harley, then back at Joker. 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says softly, each word careful. He feels the words drop rough, unpolished. An orphan from a North Gotham boy’s home, asking for something impossible, like a family. “Would you please order Harley to kidnap me?”

“Mister J.” Joker says softly. 

“Mister J.” Blake echoes. Joker presses a fingertip to her cheek and tilts her head in a pantomime of deep consideration.

“I’ll think about it.” She says. “Harley?” Lighter and cigarette case vanish in the pockets of her suit and she stands, holding out a hand to Harley. He stands, graceful as a dancer following her lead, joins her. “We’re leaving now.”

“Yes, Mister J.” Harley says, courteously. Harley takes Joker’s offered right arm, inclines his head to Blake, and they both turn their backs on Blake and walk away.

Blake’s never been so hard in his goddamn life. 


	2. Harley

It’s three weeks of agonized waiting until Joker lets him make the call. Harley’s spent the time in aching anticipation. Being tortured with pleasure, telling Joker everything she wants to know. Every detail he can remember, where Blake’s breath caught, what he corrected. Three weeks of showing Joker hand-to-hand how cops fight, resist, all the ways that Blake could make himself appear unwilling.

Joker, in her turn, shows him tricks with zip ties and the flat of a blade, how to make a breath mint feel like a drug, how to make  _ no  _ and  _ please _ sound the same, and when to say  _ stop, I really mean it.  _ He almost weeps with gratitude when she says he can call Blake, arrange a meeting.

Every nerve in his body is raw listening to the jangling ring of the phone, the noise of a busy room in the background. Blake’s voice, flat and professional, saying, “GCPD, Detective Blake.”

“Blake, it’s Harley.”

“Mn.” Blake sounds distant, distracted, noncommittal.

“It’s Officer Quinn.” Blake goes silent and Harley hears conversations as someone passes in range of Blake’s phone, something about the local sports team. Across from him, Joker raises a single eyebrow. Watches him sweat. Harley grasps at straws and decides to get his attention with the whole point of the call.

“She wants to talk to you.” Joker holds his eyes, blows him a very deliberate kiss. Harley shivers.

“She  _ what _ ?” Blake’s voice is a sharp, low hiss.

“I told her everything. She wants to talk to you about it.” Joker is spinning a looped zip tie around her finger with a deadly, pleased smile.

“...when and where?” Harley tells him. Joker takes the phone out of his hand and hangs up, and the line goes dead.

Two days.

Joker has a very particular image she wants to present, and she spends the remaining time showing Harley how she wants him to walk, talk, dress, sit. 

“I want you to be untouchable.” She says softly, adjusting the fit of his new suit with expert fingers. “I want him to look at both of us and know that anything he wants, he’ll have to beg for. I don’t want him to look to you for mercy.” 

They arrive early, because Joker wants Blake to feel off guard, out of his depth, wrong footed. She’s a master of these games and Harley follows her lead willingly. He feels like one of her bullets. She’s going to aim him at Blake and pull the trigger. 

Harley doesn’t mind.

Blake arrives fresh scrubbed with damp hair. His civilian clothes still scream cop, a navy blue button down shirt and dark slacks. Harley sympathizes, briefly. He knows what that second approach feels like. Blake’s knuckles are covered with freshly healing scabs that Harley wonders at, idly. Whose skin did Blake take out that mixture of frustration and desire on? 

Harley tenses to stand, unsmiling. Joker’s nails bite into his thigh. Harley stays seated, his face impassive, evaluating.

“Sit down, Detective.” Joker’s voice is mild, almost teasing with its invitation.

He’s not supposed to give Blake any feedback or instruction, but he likes Blake. No matter how much Blake might want this game, it can’t be easy. Harley smiles slightly, tilts his head to one side, indicating the chair. Blake sits. Good boy.

“Harley tells me there’s something you want.” Joker lights a cigarette with a gold windproof lighter. Harley is aching, watching the cigarette rest on her bottom lip. Watching her watch Blake. The clink of the metal cover snapping shut has a sound of finality. She takes a long drag, narrows her eyes against the smoke, watches Blake with disinterest. If a lioness drinking at a water hole watching a nearby antelope could be said to watch her prey with disinterest.

“...it was just an idea.” Blake looks to Harley with a frown. Harley gives him nothing in return. Will Blake apologize, confess? Blake rubs his palms on his pants, shifts in his chair. Harley watches that defensive heat rise in him, anger, his comfortable shield and armor. “You want me to fucking apologize for some dirty talk in the tub, you’re-”

“Don’t waste your energy, Detective.” Joker says mildly. “It’s an interesting idea.” It’s an understatement. It’s the start of a game that will involve many moving pieces, something complex and dark.

“An idea that involves all of us,” Harley says, leaning back in his chair. He sits tall, mimicking Joker’s posture. Knowing there will be punishment waiting if he doesn’t play the role she’s training him for. He thinks,  _ merciless. _ He remembers the way Blake sobbed under him, grateful and struggling.

“If you don’t ask for what you want, how do you expect to get it?” Joker asks. She takes a sip from a cut crystal glass. Harley pours Blake a measure of the same amber liquid. The bottle costs more than Harley used to make in two months on the force. Blake turns the glass with his fingers, doesn’t drink. Harley doesn’t have a glass of his own, which is for the best. His skin is hot, under the fine silk and wool of the suit. The carefully applied makeup hides the flush of his skin. 

Blake looks to Joker, then at Harley. Harley doesn’t know what he sees, but he can see thoughts moving across his face. Obvious. Every flicker of his expression shows something new. Joker can decode those patterns, but Harley can’t.

“Does that mean you’re interested?” Blake’s braver than Harley is, and greedy. He won’t accept the simple feedback of a glance, a sip of liquor, a soft exhale. 

“It means I want to hear what you have to say.” Joker taps ash off the end of her cigarette. She takes another sip of her own drink, watches him over the rim of her glass. “Stop staring and start talking.” At first, Harley thinks she’s talking to him.

Blake’s story is cruder, rougher, harsher than the tale Harley spun for him in the bathtub. Blake doesn’t want anything as complicated as being gentled, told to just be good and it’ll go quickly. Blake wants a choice between doing things the hard way, and the hardest way. Harley daydreams about silk ropes and delicate touches and hard won praise. Blake’s fantasies involve zip ties and duct tape, punishment, and blows that leave him breathless and struggling with his ears ringing.

When Blake finishes talking, he downs the contents of his glass with two hard swallows.

Joker looks mildly amused. Harley’s stomach is twisting on itself. How can he possibly be skilled enough to give Blake what he’s asking for, negotiating? Three weeks can’t be enough time to shrug back on that hard-edged cop skin. He remembers it well though, the rough jokes, padding out his vulnerable secrets with crude talk and playful shoves. Joker refills Blake’s glass without asking him. 

“I’ll do it,” she says. It hits both Blake and Harley hard. It’s an acceptance, agreement. Somehow, they’ve both pleased her. Harley’s hands tighten into fists at his side, muscles tense. Blake looks at Joker with something like relief before she continues. “I’ll kidnap you, watch Harley force you to do everything you want him to do to you. Maybe I’ll even touch you myself.” She crosses one leg over the other. Harley notices the shiver that goes through Blake at the rasp of expensive cloth.. “But you have to ask me nicely.”

Nothing comes without its price.

“Please.” Blake says, a hoarse croak of a whisper. Harley could laugh at that. It won’t be enough, even though it’s clear that one word is taking everything Blake has.

“Not good enough.” The words hit Harley in his core, even though they aren’t aimed at him. He begs Blake with his eyes to do better. Joker stubs out her cigarette in sharp, vicious stabs, pins Blake with her gaze. “Look me in the eyes, and ask. Me. Nicely.” Blake visibly flinches. Harley thinks,  _ well, that’s it _ . Joker can use the knowledge she’s gained from him in other ways. If Blake can’t do this, won’t do this, then he supposes it doesn’t matter. Then Blake glances down, over to Harley, then back at Joker, and shocks the hell out of Harley. 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says softly, each word careful, soft. Reverent. It reminds Harley of the way he begged Joker to keep him, months ago. Harley’s never heard this tone out of him. He realizes there’s probably a reason for that. How many times does the world tell you no before you stop asking for things? “Would you please order Harley to kidnap me?”

“Mister J.” Joker corrects him softly. It’s  _ almost _ enough. Harley can see the temptation in the line of her throat, the angle of her head. There’s a promise of beautiful violence in her voice. 

“Mister J.” Blake echoes. Joker presses a fingertip to her cheek and tilts her head in a pantomime of deep consideration. Harley watches Blake hang on her response, waiting.

“I’ll think about it.” She says. Harley knows what thinking about it means. “Harley?” Lighter and cigarette case vanish in the pockets of her suit and she stands, holding out a hand to him. Harley takes her hand, standing on legs that feel weak. “We’re leaving now.”

“Yes, Mister J.” Harley says as he stands with her, feeling like a talking doll. Pull a string, get a response. Harley takes Joker’s offered right arm, inclines his head to Blake. Fights the urge to glance over his shoulder to see what Blake’s face looks like as they walk away.

Joker waits until they’re out of Blake’s earshot to start laughing.


	3. Joker

Joker has a taste for the good things in life. Bullets, gunpowder, bespoke suits, chaos. Aged scotch. French cigarettes. Pretty men begging. Simple things, really, and not all that expensive when you think of them in terms of an investment. In Gotham, none of them are hard to come by.

She pushes Harley to his limits for three weeks, working at him from different angles. She asks as many questions as she can think of, feeling out lies, half truths, omissions. When she has the best picture of what Harley thinks Blake wants, she lets him make the call.

Harley’s suit is obviously hearts. Every line of his body, every breath he exhales begs for love. Blake, on the other hand, is a jack of spades. Sharp edged, upside down, always searching for the weak points. Whatever Blake asked for, it’s coming to her through Harley’s eyes. Turned over and softened. She wants the pleasure of hearing Blake’s harsh fantasies from his own lips. She wants to hear another member of Gotham’s police force beg her to favor him. She always did like having two of a kind in her hand.

She leans back in a chair across from Harley, idly running a zip tie through her fingers as he makes the call. Tension sings through the lines in Harley’s body. Three weeks of denial look beautiful on him. She can make him gasp for air with a deliberate breath, now.

Harley stares at the wood of the desk while he makes the call, when he’s not looking to her. Joker watches him, listens to his side of the conversation with interest.

Of course Blake agrees. That’s the easy part. The hard part is in the minute adjustments that have to happen to Harley in order to get the effect that Blake truly deserves. 

Harley is happy to wear whatever Joker puts him in, that’s not the issue. The issue is honing him until he’s razor sharp, highlighting the streak of beautiful cruelty he can be capable of. Turning a willingness to please her into a weapon that will hurt Blake exactly the way he wants to be hurt.

“What do you want me to be?” Harley asks her softly, before they leave for the meeting. She doesn’t want him to feel lost or on unsteady footing. It’s Blake’s turn for that.

“I want you to be untouchable,” she says gently, adjusting the fit of his new suit with expert fingers. Dark, expensive fabric, like ink bleeding through paper. The splash of red at his throat like a drop of heart’s blood. “I want him to look at both of us and know that anything he wants, he’ll have to beg for. I don’t want him to look to you for mercy.” She carefully pins a new present for him on his collar, an enameled 2 of hearts. It’s coy, sweet. It reminds her of the best of him. 

Joker watches Blake in the mirrors that edge the bar, studying his approach. His shoulders are back, jaw tight, chin up. He looks like he’s spoiling for a fight, and perhaps he’s already gotten one, if the scabs on his knuckles are any indication.

He’s dressed well, and his hair is damp, but everything in his posture screams that he doesn’t think it’s for their benefit. She notices the minute shift in his expression when he spots the two of them already sitting, dressed to the nines. It’s not accurate to say his face falls, exactly, but there’s his first moment of uncertainty. He glances at the chair, then at her, not sure if he’s welcome. She likes it.

“Sit down, Detective,” her voice is mild, almost teasing with its invitation. She knows it will get under his skin. Harley nearly stands to greet Blake, stopped by her fingers digging into his thigh. Harley smiles slightly instead, tilts his head to one side, indicating the chair. That, she’ll allow. Harley is gracious as a prince entertaining a peasant.

“Harley tells me there’s something you want.” Joker lights a cigarette with a gold windproof lighter. She likes the drama of it, the show, and she likes the way Harley shivers at the clink of the cover. Hard, metallic sounds are hard to ignore. She takes a long drag, narrows her eyes against the smoke, watches Blake carefully. How will he react to this phrasing, this cool reception?

“...it was just an idea.” Blake looks to Harley with a frown. But Harley follows orders well, so it’s like he’s glancing to a brick wall for support. Blake rubs his palms on his pants, shifts in his chair. Joker waits for the white-hot flare of anger. It doesn’t disappoint. “You want me to fucking apologize for some dirty talk in the tub, you’re-”

“Don’t waste your energy, Detective.” Joker says mildly. At least, not yet. She wants him to have that fight in him, so that she can wring it out of him. “It’s an interesting idea.” 

“An idea that involves all of us,” Harley says, leaning back in his chair. He sits tall, head high, expression icy. Just the way she showed him.

“If you don’t ask for what you want, how do you expect to get it?” Joker asks. She takes a sip from a cut crystal glass. The whiskey tastes like evaporating smoke, antiseptic, like a hospital on fire. It burns going down, then spreads a bloom of warmth through her chest. Just the way real fires in the night do. She loves it. Harley pours Blake a measure of the same amber liquid. Blake turns the glass with his fingers, doesn’t drink. 

Blake looks to Joker, then at Harley. Harley sits there, untouchable, unbearably lovely. Perfect temptation, just out of reach. 

“Does that mean you’re interested?” Joker feels a laugh bubbling up and she presses her lips together, glances away, waits for it to settle.  _ Interested.  _ He doesn’t understand the trouble she’s going to in order to draw him in. Harley wants Blake, and Joker is interested in getting Harley what he wants.

“It means I want to hear what you have to say.” Joker taps ash off the end of her cigarette. She takes another sip of her own drink, watches him over the rim of her glass. She wets her bottom lip with the alcohol, watches Blake stare at the suggestion of the damp paint. She lets him look for a moment before she calls him on doing what she wants. “Stop staring and start talking.”

Blake does. Ultimately, it boils down to three parts. Blake wants to be abducted. He wants to be roughed up. He wants Harley to fuck him while she watches. She listens carefully for what he doesn’t say, as well. The gaps between the words speak volumes. 

Blake doesn't mention an audience, so it will need to be a small crew. Four, to pull off the robbery, plus Harley, who doesn't steal. There will need to be two vans - the first, to carry the actual team and the haul from the heist. The second, for Harley and Blake. Harley's moral concerns will need to be taken into account, so the jewelry store will need to be small, but established, and well insured. Blake is subject to random drug testing at the force, just like all officers. So while he expresses a desire to be rendered helpless beyond his control, it will need to be the suggestion of helplessness. Something cold and bitter under the tongue, possibly baby aspirin, and let his mind fill in the rest. And Blake will need to be kept away from the rest of the clowns - they know him now, after what he pulled to attempt his rescue, and they'll want to take it out of his skin. So. Discretion. Suggestion. Blake is asking for more than he realizes. Fortunately, Joker has a head for these details.

What Blake really wants is absolution. He wants it to Not Be His Fault that he likes what he’s getting. He wants pleasure without taking responsibility for it. He wants to be forced to have a good time. It’s a simple puzzle, but it makes such a pretty picture when it’s done. He doesn’t mention her touching him, but he talks about her  _ watching,  _ commenting, evaluating, mocking _. _ Which is very interesting, considering the trouble he had when she watched him with Harley. Apparently he likes a little humiliation with his pain. She’s happy to provide.

When Blake finishes talking, he downs the contents of his glass with two hard swallows. He reminds her of a man waiting for the firing squad. She’s tempted to offer him a cigarette. Instead, she refills Blake’s glass without asking him. 

“I’ll do it,” she says. Harley’s hands tighten into fists at his side, muscles tense. She’s surprised at that reaction, but pleased. Perhaps he’s already preparing for the fight he’ll have on his hands. “I’ll kidnap you, watch Harley force you to do everything you want him to do to you. Maybe I’ll even touch you myself.” Joker breaks Blake’s fantasy down to its component parts, repeats it back to him. She watches his reactions carefully. She crosses one leg over the other, deliberately subjecting him to the rasp of cloth.  _ Look, but don’t touch. _ “But you have to ask me nicely.”

“Please.” Blake says. She feels laughter threaten again. As if that would be enough to make her disrupt her schedule, turn the city upside down with a pattern of heists for things she didn’t need, train Harley, capture Blake, and let him go again. It’s almost not worth responding to, especially not with the surly, reluctant tone Blake says it in.

“Not good enough.” Joker stubs out her cigarette in sharp, vicious stabs, pins Blake with her gaze. “Look me in the eyes, and ask. Me. Nicely.” Blake visibly flinches. Joker waits. Blake glances down, over to Harley, then back to her when he realizes Harley will give him nothing. There’s a long pause while Blake absorbs that. She watches him steel himself, as if for something painful and unpleasant but necessary.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says softly, each word careful. Gentle. Pleading. “Would you please order Harley to kidnap me?” He’s almost there. She can see him working out the shape of everything he’s asking, what a favor he’s demanding from them both. He wants to reshape their entire dynamic. He’d better beg.

“Mister J.” Joker corrects him softly. It’s a name he’s never used for her. She wants to see how he’ll shape the words.

“Mister J.” Blake echoes. It’s almost good enough. Joker presses a fingertip to her cheek and tilts her head in a pantomime of deep consideration. She gives him doubt and uncertainty in return for his efforts.

“I’ll think about it.” She says. She’s going to make him wait, torment him with the news of robberies and activities that have nothing to do with his fantasies. She wants him to be desperate and grateful when he finally gets what he wants. “Harley?” Lighter and cigarette case vanish in the pockets of her suit and she stands, holding out a hand to him. Harley takes her hand, standing readily. “We’re leaving now.”

“Yes, Mister J.” Harley says as he stands with her. She offers him her arm, old fashioned, like a gentleman. Harley takes Joker’s offered right arm, curling his hand around her bicep, inclines his head to Blake.

Once they’re outside the bar, Joker gives into the laughter and lets it out, shaking with it, delighted. 

This is going to be such  _ fun. _


End file.
